High of love (drunk from the hate)
by ibuzoo
Summary: People say there are things in the future. (bright and promising, sparkling, beaming, radiating like a star before it collapses, implodes until glorious pearly-white nebula rests in the night, swallows the time, swallows everything dazzlingly beautiful until the darkness arrives, eats, hungers for cruelty, for eternity) Tom wonders what the future bears for him.


**High of love (drunk from the hate)**

**Prompt:** Strangers

**Rating:** T

**Warnings: **Modern AU / College AU / Artist AU /

**Word count:** 1152

**A/N:** I don't really have much to say in this one - Tom is the one who searches for Hermione and Hermione kinda plays him a bit - it's a bit like paper chase for him.

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><p><strong>o.<strong>

People say there are things in the future.

_(bright and promising, sparkling, beaming, radiating like a star before it collapses, implodes until glorious pearly-white nebula rests in the night, swallows the time, swallows everything dazzlingly beautiful until the darkness arrives, eats, hungers for cruelty, for eternity)_

Tom wonders what the future bears for him.

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><p><strong>i.<strong>

The sun sets bright during the last days of August, bathes the sea in redwood and vermilion while the waves break the colours with a golden glimmer, wash white foam on the shores. He spots her standing at the far end of the coast, backpack in the sand behind her, water reaching to her knees and it floats softly around her skin, mirrors her reflection.

Her dark navy top is wet, soaked, clings to her body while her shoulder blades stick out as if she's trying to grow a pair of wings through her skin and the wet fabric stops over her buttocks, emphasises her curves just the right way and he watches as she pushes her thick mess of hair out of her face, how it curls at the end, swirls around her shoulders and her back.

It's utterly mesmerising but then Rosier calls out that the yacht will leave the haven as soon as Greyback lifts the rope and Tom leans against the railing, glass of champagne in his hand while they drift away from the shore.

He watches out for her while his fingers drum against the brittle glass of his flute but her figure gets smaller and smaller until it disappears entirely on the horizon.

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><p><strong>ii.<strong>

Tom sits by the window while he watches how Rodolphus winds a dark red silken ribbon around his fingers, smooths the material out before he interlaces it in Bella's ebony hair, coils it around long strains until it fits perfectly to her rosewood coloured bag.

He sighs and turns his head to observe the room, spots wild hair in the last corner, a pencil neatly tucked behind an ear with coal smudges on her pink cheeks, glistening lips trapped between a row of white teeth. There's a sketchbook on her table and a box full of stubs, all kinds of colours with half torn papers and smudged peaks.

He examines her fingertips and how they blur the pastels over the bright white paper, how she draws perfect lines with the tip of a marker. She looks up and their eyes meet, a brief imaginary touch like soft feathers before some bulky creature barrages his view, blocks everything behind. An unamused snort leaves his perfectly curved lips and he tries to stretch his neck to look past the perturbing cuss but he needs to leave his seat, approaches hers but it counts for nothing because a second later the man vanishes and the place behind rests empty, abandoned.

The only trace she leaves behind is the box full of oil pastel colours and Tom takes it, closes it carefully and returns to his seat, takes his cup, drinks.

_(his smirk rests hidden, his mind locked)_

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><p><strong>iii.<strong>

He almost misses her the next time while he stands besides Mulciber near the corner of Kingston road, watches the buses drive by one by one during rush hour, all of them crowded and crammed full of students on their way home. The nearby traffic lights turn red and a bus stops beside them, theres a knock on the windowpane a second later, a faint sound, almost inaudible but it resonates through his body as soon as he looks up.

She looks innocent almost chaste while she sits with her knees bent, books and papers neatly stacked on top of her tanned legs that flash under the hem of her thick sky-blue skirt. She breathes tenderly against the glass, like the flutter of butterfly wings and Tom watches the mist setting on the transparent surface until it's covered white - then she starts to write, smudges letters until his name reflects.

The bus starts a second later but her smug expression remains in Tom's mind, burns, flashes even long after she's gone.

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><p><strong>iv.<strong>

Someone bumps into him, pushes past his side, shoves his shoulder in the process and stray curls of honey brown hair tickle the naked flesh of his neck, tease him with the glint of dark chocolate eyes while he feels the edges of fingertips lingering on his arm, a ribbing of something he searches for but a second later she's already gone, like a ghost, like a cold breeze in summer days.

"You okay?", he can hear Abraxas voice like the distorted sound of an old radio, far away and robotic while his eyes search through the masses of people in the canteen, seeks for a mess of wild locks between hundreds of different students but there's no trace behind, not even the faint scent of her perfume.

"I'm fine," he grunts between clenched teeth, turns around and leaves the campus.

_(when he arrives home the smears of her oily covered fingertips still mark the sleeve of his coat)_

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

The hall is decorated with canvases reaching between different sizes from half an inch to two inches, covering the walls with various motives, sometimes a face, sometimes a neck and Tom just stops, breathes, watches amazed because in all of them he sees himself - in the grey of the eyes, the slender fingers in this one, the smirk in that one.

"You came", she breathes and he doesn't need to turn around, fixes his eyes on the canvas right in front of him, traces the outlines in his mind, murmurs, "Of course."

Her hand rests on his shoulder without hesitation and he turns, watches the way the headlights reflect in the brown of her eyes and her smirk matches his, dark and mysterious, innocent all the same that chills his spine.

"My name's Hermione."

Hermione.

Hermione.

He turns back to the canvas and breathes.

_(he doesn't comment on it when her fingers coils around his, neither does he take his hand away)_

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><p><strong>vi.<strong>

"People say there are things in the future", he murmurs while his teeth drag over her skin, feast on her taste.

Hermione laughs sharp and bitter, cracks in the middle while she smudges coal and pastels on her sketch-pad, tugs her feet under Tom's legs and he draws imaginary circles on her naked skin, kisses her knees one by one while she murmurs, mysterious and dark, "There's us."

_(his future flashes before his eyes, bright and promising, sparkling, beaming, radiating like a star before it collapses, implodes until glorious pearly-white nebula rests in the night, swallows the time, swallows everything dazzlingly beautiful until the darkness arrives, eats, hungers for cruelty, for eternity but there are wild brown curls, dark brown eyes and his future smiles perilous, inviting)_

There's us, he thinks and kisses her flesh once more.


End file.
